At the airport Radisson Hotel in Oslo today, I get upgraded from standard to business class. I don't ask why, and the receptionist doesn't explain. I payed for the room with golden points that I collect on a golden card. I tell myself that if it's not because I'm a good customer, then it's because of my fur. The receptionist took a long look at my YSL white lamb and decided that I could use a voluminous white tub to match it. After years of traveling I've discovered that while the meaning of upgrading can have shifting signifiers, there's one constant: the bath tub. You always get one. And it's always huge. Fair enough. After getting installed in a very nice room, 5 minutes later I hit the train to go up the mountain. I want to eat good fish and see Oslo from atop. The head waitress at the restaurant – a five star thing, with a chef who knows what he's doing – also takes a good look at my white Yves. I order a dry martini, cod tatar accompanied by row and egg as a starter, and cod in the oven on a bed of saffron rice and spinach as the main dish. I want a glass of red Portuguese wine. It's seldom that I drink white wine with fish, or with anything else for that matter. As far as I'm concerned white wine is overrated, unless it's a very good Pinot Gris or champagne. The waitress returns to her initial long look and decides to upgrade. She tells me: “I have something better for you. We had a wine tasting last night so I want you to try some the remains of an exquisite bottle.” A Piemonte Experimentum 2008, barrique 2 of 8. Fair enough. I'm used to special treatment. I'm also used to shitty treatment, but these days I find myself becoming more and more intolerant of it, so I'm very appreciative of professionals who know what's what. After she leaves I try the wine, have a look over Oslo and start crying. Christ, and I'm not even a sentimental type. Never have been. So, what am I crying about? It occurs to me that there are at least a few million of people in the world who will never get to know the meaning of upgrading. So, bloody hell, I feel privileged. The wine had a slim cerise rind around the glass, and in the middle, by Jove, hell was in it, a black red hell with a lot of gravitas. My nose fell into the glass ever so hopelessly. Some hell is quite divine. Dinner was exquisite. The chef complimented properly. And the wine – the wine, yes, I almost bought a bottle. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask what the damaging price for one such was, but the waitress, giving me the look for the third time, and being a professional, just said: “You know what, I'm glad you enjoyed it. Leave it at that.” Oh, what an echo, I felt. These days I find myself telling myself that some things are best left at that. Back at the hotel I go for a mean sauna. I can take 55 min in a heated to 95 celsius room, interrupted by 3 icy showers. I'm ready for Tromsø tomorrow.